


neither pure, nor wise, nor good

by meretricula



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6651406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretricula/pseuds/meretricula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sweden is so fucking boring," Zlatan complained. "Hurry up and retire so you can come live here with me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	neither pure, nor wise, nor good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stickmarionette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [В нас нет ни чистоты, ни мудрости, ни доброты](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496124) by [fytbolistka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fytbolistka/pseuds/fytbolistka), [WTF_Ibraxwell_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Ibraxwell_2018/pseuds/WTF_Ibraxwell_2018)



> the accompanying fanmix can be found [here](http://footie-springfling.tumblr.com/post/143905787631).

"Sweden is so fucking boring," Zlatan complained. "Hurry up and retire so you can come live here with me." 

Maxwell leaned in so that the camera in his phone was sure to get a good view of his flushed, sweaty face and rolled his eyes, silently thanking whatever technological genius had invented FaceTime, so he could still demonstrate the proper indifference to Zlatan's wishes from a stationary bicycle an entire ocean away. "You're making it sound really appealing," he commented. 

"Well, obviously it wouldn't be boring if we were both here," Zlatan said. "I'm interesting enough for anyone, and you can usually keep me entertained." 

"You know, that reminds me of something," Maxwell mused. "I think you said it to me, which would explain why it's enshrined forever in my memory. Can't forget the golden wisdom of Zlatan. What was it, now… wait, I think I have it! 'Whatever, Maxwell, I'm going to kick retirement's ass, I don't need _plans_.' Yes, I think that must have been it." 

"Whatever," Zlatan muttered sulkily. 

"Anyway, who says I'm coming to Sweden when I retire? The weather is better in Brazil." 

"Yeah, but _I'm_ not in Brazil," Zlatan pointed out. 

"Really not as much of a draw as you think it is," Maxwell said. "Hang on, I have to do the last high intensity interval now." 

Zlatan made a face, but he obligingly let Maxwell concentrate on pedaling as hard as he could until the bike chirped to let him know he could slow down, preferably before his heart pounded straight out of his chest. "You know, if you would just retire and move to Sweden, you could stop trying to keep up with twenty-year-olds," Zlatan said, taking advantage of the fact that Maxwell's lungs were on fire. "Don't worry, you'll still be cute when you're fat. You have the right kind of face." 

"Fuck... off," Maxwell managed, in between gasps for breath. "You're one... to talk. Fatass." 

"Helena likes my ass well-padded," Zlatan said with the smugness of someone who _didn't_ have to keep up with twenty-year-olds anymore. 

"Need to cushion… all those bones," Maxwell agreed. His breathing was almost back to normal, and he didn't want to give Zlatan the satisfaction of being right, but the thought of doing this workout multiple times per week made him want to cry. Getting old was terrible. "I didn't want to complain, but man, sleeping with you was like getting into bed with a bunch of rocks. Poky rocks." 

"How would you know?" Zlatan asked, a little defensively, which was probably going to be the highlight of Maxwell's entire week. Zlatan was vain about the weirdest things. "You're always the little spoon." 

"Yeah, but I'm a pushover and I let you get away with fucking everything," Maxwell said, passing over the obvious joke about what else must have been poking him with the forbearance of a true saint. "Helena's definitely the big spoon. How's she doing, by the way?" 

"Every day she gets to yell at total strangers about how they're fucking up. She's having the time of her life." 

"Consulting really is her dream job," Maxwell said thoughtfully. He frowned, then added, "Have you told _her_ you're bored in Sweden?" 

"What? Of course not." Zlatan scowled. "It's her turn to pick where we go. That was the deal. I'm not a fucking welsher. Also, I wouldn't _be_ bored if you would stop pretending to be an elite athlete and come to Sweden." 

Maxwell raised an eyebrow and went for the big guns. "I wouldn't talk about elite athletes, buddy. There's only one Champions League medal between the two of us and it's not in your trophy cabinet." 

"See, even my trophy cabinet misses you," Zlatan said, which was worrying. Mentioning the Champions League usually meant a five to ten minute digression onto the subject of Pep Guardiola. Maxwell had actually quite liked Guardiola, but he took his advantages where he found them. "Come to Sweden. Bring your Champions League medal with you. It can cuddle with my Puskas Award." 

"It's the middle of the season," Maxwell said mildly. "I can't exactly leave coach and the team in the lurch." 

"You know, I still cannot _fucking believe_ you signed for that rat," Zlatan said, which meant at least some trigger topics were sacred and eternal. "That fucker, that sneaky little — he only asked you to piss me off." 

"You say the sweetest things. Tell me more about how I'm not a versatile player that any team would be lucky to have," Maxwell said, although if he was being totally honest he did think pissing Zlatan off had been at least part of Nesta's decision to press so hard for him to sign for Miami. Only a small part — Maxwell knew that his presence and experience were valuable in the locker room and on the bench as well as on the field, that he provided a counterweight that their team of babies and amateurs had badly needed — but still. That didn't mean he needed to admit it to Zlatan. "I like the míster. I'm learning a lot from him." 

"You can't call that fuckhead _míster_ ," Zlatan exploded. "That miserable rat bastard piece of shit, _stealing_ you just to spite me. I spit on his grave! I spit on his _mother's_ grave! And fucking Maldini's too," he added, clearly brooding on the many wrongs the Milan Wall had done him over the years. Depriving him of Maxwell's company for a season apparently ranked up with man-marking him in multiple derbies della Madonnina, which was a nice boost for Maxwell's ego if nothing else. 

"Oh, so do you think it would be appropriate for me to call him Sandro instead?" he asked. "I wasn't sure. You know how Italians get sometimes, but you know him better than I do. Did I tell you I'm getting lunch with him next week? He's going to tell me all about that year you two were in Milan without me. You know, when I was busy winning the Champions League," he added. 

"Ask him about how busy he was winning my _dick_ in Milan," Zlatan snapped. 

"I don't think that's a very appropriate conversation to have with my coach," Maxwell said, "but I'll tell him you send your best regards." 

Zlatan glared, speechless with outrage, for a long moment before he finally cracked and started laughing. "You little shithead. Yeah, tell him I send him a big kiss, but make sure you record it. I wanna see his little rat face. I bet he gives himself a cootie shot." 

"Or an aneurysm," Maxwell agreed. "I don't know why you and Nesta still get so worked up about each other. He's a good guy, for an Italian. You must have gotten along the year you won the league." 

"I can get along with anyone when we're winning the league," Zlatan said, which was such a blatant lie that Maxwell didn't even bother calling him on it. "Yeah, he's not that bad, I guess. He's no you, though." 

"We can't all be perfect teddy bears," Maxwell said with a shrug punctuated by a beep from the bike. "Hey, that's the end of my cool-down, I have to hit the shower before I show my face for lunch. Talk to Helena about being bored, you enormous bag of limp dicks. She didn't ask you to be miserable when you retired. _Talk to her_ ," he added when Zlatan made a face. "And come visit me in Miami if you don't have anything else to do. Bring the kids, we'll go to the beach. Which is another reason I'm not moving to Sweden, by the way. Your beaches fucking suck." 

"Our beaches are for people with balls big enough they don't have to worry about shrinkage, princess. I'll talk to Helena about when's a good time to visit," Zlatan said. He sounded more cheerful than he had for entire the past hour, and Maxwell concealed his relief by making an obnoxious kissy face at his phone. "Love you too, fuckhead. Talk to you soon." 

" _Not_ in the morning," Maxwell specified. 

"I'm not going to forget about time zones," Zlatan said, insulted, as if he hadn't in fact forgotten all about time zones and called Maxwell at four o'clock in the morning Miami time two days ago. He hadn't woken up in time to answer before the call went to voicemail, and then Zlatan had called again thirty seconds later. Giulia had almost murdered him in their bed. 

"Good, because I'm putting my phone on silent as soon as I go to bed and I'm not going to pick up if you do. Let me know about coming to Miami, though. Give Helena and the boys a kiss for me, okay?" 

"Same to Giulia and the girls," Zlatan said. He was waving at the camera like an idiot as Maxwell hit _End Call_ and switched over to check on the group text he and Giulia had going with Helena about various job openings for consultants and finding a beachfront property in the area for her and Zlatan to buy. Giulia had apparently seen a promising place that morning, since there were about fifteen pictures of bedrooms and bathrooms, which Maxwell scrolled past, and one spectacular view of the ocean from a porch. 

_That one's a contender,_ Helena had texted. 

_I like it too! Just got off the phone with Z, act surprised when he suggests visiting Miami,_ he sent, along with a thumbs-up emoji. Helena replied with the emoji of a monkey with its hands over its mouth. 

Maxwell was pretty sure that as soon as he got Zlatan to come live with him in Miami, he was going to settle into retirement just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. it is my fondest dream that Miami FC, which is co-owned by Paolo Maldini and coached by Alessandro Nesta, will someday go full-on old-school Serie A nostalgia and sign Zlatan Ibrahimovic for one last "I'm not dead yet!" season in America à la Pirlo, but I don't think it will ever happen. I don't think they would sign Maxwell either, but it seemed like the slightly less wish-fulfillment version. (I do hear rumors that they might be headed to Orlando, though!)  
> 2\. spooning, teddy bears, and Helena going back to work after Zlatan retires are all based on actual words that have come out of actual people's mouths. Maxwell secretly being an enormous shit-stirring asshole is not based on anything except my conviction that anyone who's been friends with Zlatan this long has to have hidden depths. _evil_ hidden depths.  
>  3\. title is a quote from Candide.


End file.
